


Un-Sexily Parental

by gnimaerd



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Episode: s07e07 The Bells of Saint John, F/M, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 02:05:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnimaerd/pseuds/gnimaerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, just once, she falls asleep in his lap - and it's probably a bit more pleasant than it should be. A short ficlet taking place not long after The Bells of St John, largely Eleven/Clara with mentions of Eleven/River and Vastra/Jenny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Un-Sexily Parental

 

 

Once, just once, she falls asleep in his lap.

She doesn’t make a habit of it – it’s a bit dopey, sleeping on someone else, a bit un-sexily parental. But it makes her feel safe, with his arms and his chest and his daft amounts of hair getting up her nose, and for reasons she can’t quite explain Clara almost never feels safe, so she sleeps on his lap with her head on his shoulder and enjoys how secure it all feels.

The TARDIS hasn’t grown her a room yet, that’s why. The TARDIS seems to pride itself on never re-using a room but simply producing new ones, like rabbits, as the need arises, ever-expanding to fold itself comfortably around the Doctor’s ever-expanding collection of humans. But it can take a little while, depending on how the old girl’s feeling, and so the first few nights the Doctor has to return Clara to her own room on earth to sleep and then, one night, she’s too tired even for that (it’s an exhausting business, running around the universe). And as the TARDIS rocks gently through the rings of Saturn on their way home, as they sit on the floor under the console after a long, hard day, Clara slumps against the Doctor’s shoulder and slips contentedly out of consciousness for a few hours.

The Doctor isn’t quite sure what to do with her. Amy would wrinkle up her face and shove her onto the floor and River would probably suggest something inappropriate and Rory would ask Amy what to do. But now he’s on his own with a brand new human friend and it has been a very long time since he had anyone in his lap at all.

He considers telephoning Vastra for help. She’d probably suggest eating Clara but at least that would be distracting. Except it might wake Clara up and he doesn’t want to do that either. He suspects she’s the sort of person who’s quite grumpy when sleep-deprived and he hasn’t tested her temper yet and he’d rather not start now when everything’s so nice.

So he just sits still and pats Clara a little bit to make sure she’s comfortable (which she seems to be). She’s starting to drool a bit which is unfortunate – he dabs at her with a handkerchief, because he’d rather she not ruin his bow tie, it’s his new favourite, he’s named it Angie.

She wakes up as they come out of the fringe of Saturn’s gravitational pull with a little bit of a pop – it startles Clara and she sits up.

“What?”

“What?” The Doctor asks.

“What’s happening?”

“Nothing,” the Doctor says.

“Oh,” Clara says, blinking. “Why’s it so dark in here?”

“I dimmed the lights because you were sleeping.”

“Oh,” she considers, “am I sitting in your lap?”

“Sort of.”

“No, I’m definitely sitting in your lap. That’s a bit weird.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“No worries.”

She doesn’t move, though. She yawns, and puts her arms around him and sinks lower against his chest instead. “I suppose you’re the most comfortable thing in here, though. You should get a sofa, Doctor. Or at least an arm chair.”

The Doctor makes a mental note to get a hammock.

There is a long pause in which he realises that she’s stroking the back of his neck, absently, with the tips of her fingers. She might just be sleepy enough that she doesn’t realise she’s doing it.

Or she might be more like River. He’s not sure.

It’s a bit unsettlingly pleasant, though.

He takes her hand away and kisses the back of it, like an old Victorian gentleman (or like what Vastra is always doing with Jenny), and gives it back to her, and she smiles at him, and she might be blushing but he can’t tell.

They’ve got to that awkward bit where he ought to decide to kiss her or to get up and have healthy boundaries.

He’s a married man, sort of – not that River, he suspects, takes a particularly monogamous view of their hypothetical  marriage vows and to be fair a great many cultures don’t either. But it feels a bit odd that she may not know about Clara (although, knowing River…)

Clara has kissed him before, sort of, but she doesn't remember it and he's not sure that that counts. He ought to get River's permission, before he falls in love again, before, after. In whatever order, that’s the right thing to do, he feels.

He has not got up, and he has not kissed Clara. Is she waiting for him to do that or – no, she’s falling asleep again. Good. Excellent. Makes this far less awkward.

(Clara is pretending to fall asleep again, because it makes this far less awkward.)

Why did she fall asleep in his lap for christ’s sake? Who does that? And why won’t he kiss her? She was trying very hard to look appealing. Maybe he couldn’t see her under his chin…

 She should just kiss him herself, but she’s worried she’s going to scare him off. He seems…  wounded, somehow. Like he’s lost a lot. If he’s as old as he says he is he must have done – you don’t live a thousand years and not see a lot of death.

She knows what people look like when they’re grieving, after all.

She’s listening to his heart beating, wondering if there’s any particular way a broken heart beats, if perhaps she can tell by the sounds it makes – an odd sound, not like a human heartbeat at all, a different rhythm from end to end. She puts a hand to her own chest for comparison.

“Do you really have two hearts?”

“Can’t you tell?”

She moves her ear – and yes, she can tell. One heartbeat, then another. One heartbeat, then another.

“How do they both – fit?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I thought you were going back to sleep?”

She smiles. His hearts are thrumming under her fingertips – are they beating a little faster, with her fingers there? She rubs a moment, liking how his chest feels – his chest full of hearts, broken hearts, beating hearts – she yawns, feeling her eyes wanting to close again, the TARDIS gently rocking.

“Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, Clara.”

He kisses the top of her head, and that’s nice – a bit un-sexily parental but nice, and she feels safe, with his arms and his chest and his hearts, so she sleeps.


End file.
